


Sometime Around Midnight

by milkovichmouse



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: AU, M/M, Song fic, it's sad, lots of sad mickey, not canon at all tho it seems it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-20
Updated: 2016-02-20
Packaged: 2018-05-22 00:21:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,717
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6063669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/milkovichmouse/pseuds/milkovichmouse
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it starts sometime around midnight</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sometime Around Midnight

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! This is my first one shot and therefore my first actually finished fic. I literally came up with this like 5 hours ago and started typing so i hope it's not absolute shit.
> 
> It's inspired by the song Sometime Around Midnight by The Airborne Toxic Event bc that song makes me really emo and also makes me think of ian and mickey.  
> This story is not canon, you're not meant to actually know what exactly happened between the two of them, even i haven't exactly thought that through.
> 
> Also i haven't reread it before posting bc i was afraid i would hate it and then delete it!  
> Enjoy maybe

He didn’t mean to come here.

He’d had a couple of beers and a hit or two from a joint, he really wasn’t drunk, not even buzzed but he blames where his feet took him on the alcohol and drugs in his system.

One minute he’s at the bar with his brothers, watching them hopelessly fail at trying to pick up some chick to take home for the night, god bless her soul, and the next he’d found himself walking out of the bar suddenly surrounded by the night and the cold snow that Chicago’s winter has brought.

There was about two inches of snow on the ground, crunching under his boots with every continuous step he made, the sky was still falling with the chilly flakes but he hardly noticed.

He hadn’t even realize he was shivering until he suddenly found himself on the corner of Evelyn Avenue, staring up at the street sign and wondering how many miles he must’ve walked getting here.

He didn’t mean to come here, to this corner, to this neighborhood he didn’t know very well, on the cusp of the North Side where the streets were parked with practical cars to fit enough car seats and has working airbags. Each house has a yard and decent sized pool and if it weren’t the middle of a Chicago winter he doesn’t have a doubt in his mind that the grass would be green, a bright healthy green.

The color of _his_ eyes.

The grass is always greener on this side.

The funniest and yet saddest part is this isn’t even luxury, luxury is a few roads down, through a gated neighborhood that can only be accessed through a four-numbered passcode he would never have the pleasure of knowing.

Here, they just live comfortably.

He will never be comfortable.

He looks up at the house with about a million lights on in the inside, silhouettes of people laughing and drinking against it. He hears the light thumps of the music from where he’s standing and can’t help but wonder if the neighbor is okay with that.

Hell, the neighbor was probably invited, made and brought a plate of oeuvres as a _thank you_ gesture.

He looks up at the sky, it’s dark and he wonders what time it is, what time he left the bar and if his brothers are looking for him.

He almost wants to laugh at himself for the stupid thought, of course they’re not looking for him.

Looking both ways he’s crosses the street towards the lively house, he tells himself he has no idea what he’s doing, it’s all the beer and pot and maybe his body just wants to get out of the cold for a while, that’s it, his body and the substances are making the choices for him, it’s not his sobered brain and it’s certainly not his heart.

He doesn’t bother ringing the doorbell or knocking, not because he’s rude or anything like that more so he’s sure it would go unnoticed anyway with the way the stereo is practically already deafening him.

(He’s also sure that if someone _had_ opened the door after he knocked, they wouldn’t have let him in.)

The first word that comes to mind when he enters the crowded house is ‘homely’ and it kind of makes him sick.

‘Homely’ is the word used way too many times on those house renovation shows (that he totally doesn’t binge-watch on the weekends), it means a home with lots of lights and sofas so soft you could use them as a bed.

It’s funny that bed-like soft sofas are so lacking back on the south side considering how useful they’d be due to the pieces of shit that live there, they’re used to being kicked out of beds and forced to sleep on couches.

“Hey Mickey!”

It caught him by surprise, the light and slightly wasted tone. He was obviously too busy checking the place out to notice the guy in front of him.

The guy that is now patiently awaiting an answer.

“Hey Ronan,” he says rather reserved.

Ronan is a tall guy with a buzzed head, naturally tanned skin and eyes almost as blue as his own. He also has a tattoo of a raven that starts at his back and covers half his shoulder and neck, he’s never seen the full piece of artwork but it peeks out of just about every shirt the guy owns. He’d say Ronan is very much his type, considering he’s hot as fuck and he would consider asking him out some time if Ronan weren’t straight.

And if he were looking for a relationship, which he’s not.

“I haven’t seen you in age’s man! Not since like, school!”

Right. School.

Ronan’s school of course considering he’d never bothered going to college, he barely made it through high school.

He and Ronan meant through his very frequent visits to the University of Chicago, where Ronan was studying some kind of science and also worked as the dorms front desk person.(whatever the hell they’re called)

They’ve had many conversations in the short period of time it took him to sign his name in and out of the building, he wouldn’t consider them friends really though Ronan would disagree they were more like acquaintances.

“Yeah, haven’t been around much lately.”

Ronan’s buzzed smile seems to falter a little at this, _he knows_ , of course he knows.

“I think I’m just gonna..” he trails off pointing his thumb over his shoulder in the direction he came from.

Now seems like a good time to leave but before he can turn around Ronan speaks up.

“He’s here, you know,” Ronan says, but in a way that tells him he knows that he already knew.

And it’s like fate but not really, more like some sick kind of joke when he turns his head just a little to the left and he sees _him,_ in the living room swarming with about 50 other people all he sees is _hi,_ he’s wearing clothes that are considered nothing but casual and mundane but they fit him so well, but not nearly as well as the smile he’s sporting very widely on his face, shining brighter in comparison of the ‘homely’ lights of this now mediocre house. The truth is they can’t be less than 30ft apart but what he can’t make out in complete detail doesn’t matter because he remembers it all anyway.

And he’s just so _beautiful_.

And he really, _really_ shouldn’t have come here.

He shouldn’t have done a lot of things.

Where his legs take him next is not out the front door like he wished he told him to but rather to the kitchen where he finds a bottle of open vodka and pours it into the nearest empty cup and downs it in 2.

He’s march right out of here, out of this house, out of his life, out of this continuous cycle of slowly killing himself with liquor and self-deprivation. He’s going to do all of that…

_Right after this second shot._

After a while he starts to feel good.

Not exactly _good_ , more like _numb._

He’s cradling his 4th or 5th drink in hand rocking to the sounds coming out of the speakers. His eyes a closed, not because he’s trying to feel the shitty top 40 anthem but because he’s afraid opening them they might land on someone he’s not ready to see for the second time tonight, it’d be too much considering that was the first time he’d seen him in 5 months.

He tries really hard not to think about it most days, trying best to drown out thoughts of small brown skin stars he never got tired of counting and a laugh so warm he’d have thrown away all of his coats if it meant seeing just those teeth, lips and hearing that sound 24/7 for the rest of his life with numerous amounts of whiskey and $5 beer.

Ironically, the drinking made it worse.

He’s turning in slow circles and it reminds him of the time they went to an amusement park, he’s not a fan of rides but that’s a poor example of all the things he’s given up in order to ‘make it work’, he likes to say he would’ve given it all but if that were true he wouldn’t be 2 shots away from being a certified alcoholic.

He rode The Tea Cups for the first time in his entire life that day and despite vomiting into the nearest trashcan directly after he was happy for the few minutes he watched the other boy smiling sat directly across in perfect focus while the world spun behind him.

Then the music changed and so did the memory, he has lots of them, together, apparently a lot can happen within 6 years of knowing a person.

The new melody was faster and angrier, an accurate representation of what he’s usually felt for the past 5 months.

The singer is talking about a breakup and he almost wants to laugh at the coincidence, though it’s not a coincidence considering every other song on the radio is about a boy or girl who broke their heart, a heteronormative sob story on endless repeat.

Don’t mean it doesn’t hit the mark right on the fucking head.

He’s not dancing this time but with his eye closed he pictures a different kind of memory, their last memory.

He’s angry but knows he has no right to be, they’re yelling at each other and it’s ugly, the entire college campus can probably hear every word they’re saying but neither of them care.

 He knows he hurt him really badly this time.

 But for some fucked up and undeniably psychological reason, he’ll never be man enough to admit when he’s screwed up. So he’s using words he never thought would leave his tongue when looking at this man in front of him, he’s so filled with rage he wants to hit things and for a second it reminds him of his father.

Before he knows it he’s being thrown out of the small dorm and told never to come back.

_I really did it this time didn’t I?_

He couldn’t tell if it was the vodka or the vivid reminiscing that suddenly made his head begin to spin but he suddenly felt like he did after that stupid twirling amusement park ride, throat feeling almost acidic with the need to vomit.

Opening his eyes he expected to see the floor, after too many drinks he wouldn’t doubt that this entire time he’d just been passed out on the floor, maybe even facing the ceiling instead. But what he didn’t expect to see instead was red.

 

He always thought it was quite poetic, the red of his hair maybe a symbol romance, and infatuation or dare he say _love._ It was always something found he liked in the man, he had a unique ability to stand out in a crowd, at first merely because of the hair, and then as time went on and he heard the generous laugh, the lame jokes, and his unexplainable never-ending positive energy, he found that he couldn’t quite find another human being in this entire world that stood out more than Ian Gallagher.

In the end though, he’d seen the once bright and promising head of hair as more of a red flag, a danger warning of hot and menacing flames of fire that eventually left him burned.

Looking at the familiar hair now, he decides it’s more of a shade of orange rather than red.

“Mickey.”

If he deflates at the sound of his name on Ian’s tongue it’s because he can’t forget the way he’d said it that night that they fought; disappointed and undoubtedly heartbroken.

Though now he says it like they’re old school mates that never really talked much in high school just knew merely of each other’s existence and he can’t tell which is worse.

He wants to reply, he has so much to say to the two green eyes staring back at him.

He wants to tell him he looks good, because he really does as discouraging as that is considering he himself is a walking mess.

He wants to say that he regrets everything he said that night, that he meant none of it even if Ian did, because he’s not afraid anymore, of telling the truth even if the feelings aren’t reciprocated.

He wants to admit that he thinks about Ian all the time, and that replays their downfall over and over in his head and reenacts what he would’ve done different if given the chance. 

But most importantly he wants Ian to know that he’s sorry, well and truly apologetic he wants to sink to his knees and beg for him to believe that if he could take it all back he would and that there’s nothing on this god giving earth he regrets more than hurting him.

And he won’t care if doesn’t forgive him, he just wants him to know, _needs_ him to know.

Instead, he doesn’t say anything, he looks at this face he’s studied numerous times, in bed, at the dining table, spinning recklessly in an oversized tea cup. He knows this man’s face better than his own, even after not seeing him in 5 months because it’s all he’s dreamt of every night since.

Ian doesn’t wait, he never has, he answers because he knows Mickey wont, the thing about getting to know every detail about a person is that the ultimately get the chance to do the same and even though it should relieve him that Ian might still know him better than anyone else he also realizes that in the end being himself was what Ian hated the most.

“How are you?”

Is what he says and if mickey were alone in his house right now imagining this conversation in his head this would be the part where he breaks down.

Mickey doesn’t answer right away because someone walks by the two of them, a stranger that would never be relevant in a moment like this but as they walk passed ignoring Ian and Mickey just the way they also do back, the air catches and suddenly Mickey can smell Ian’s cologne, and he fucking knows by the back of his hand that it’s Ian because he’s smelt that cologne more than a thousand times, it’s been on his bed sheets, his t-shirts and he thinks a scent so overly repeatedly intoxicating his nostrils should make him sick but instead it’s his favorite smell in the entire world because it’s so undoubtedly Ian.

It makes him think about mornings spent in bed. After a long night of fucking and then a sleep so sound you’d think they were both dead, they would wake up and Ian would smile at Mickey, a gorgeous smile filled with sleep but no less warm and Mickey thought it was stupid at first when this thing between them wasn’t as serious as death, he thought no one should ever be that happy in the mornings.

But like everything else that changed over time, and Mickey would smile back before kissing him long and hard and they would stay like that, studying each other’s faces harder than any book. Mickey liked to count the freckles on Ian’s skin, though he never told him that. Sometimes Ian would move his head and Mickey would lose count and have to start over again, somehow he never seemed to mind.

It was a morning like this, soft and happy where Mickey realized he would die for this boy lying next to him.

“I’m good.” Mickey says and if God is real he’s not sure how he hadn’t gotten a lightning bolt straight through the heart for a lie so obvious.

And even though Mickey would like to think he knows Ian more than anyone, the look on his face at this very moment is ineffable.

It’s also at this very moment that Mickey thinks Ian might just be fine without him.

That realization hurts more than he thought it would.

 

Ian walks away, he’s not sure what exactly happened between Mickey’s reply and Ian’s retreating form except that it was made up of mostly silence despite the screaming in Mickeys head.

This time when he heads back to the kitchen and most specifically to the vodka he knows exactly what he’s doing.

Ian is fine without him, it shouldn’t be surprising really, Mickey never been much of a catch.

He’s shocked they survived 6 years together. Even though those 6 years weren’t completely made up of morning smiles and kisses but that’s how relationship are right? They have ups and downs but in the end love conquers all.

_Love._

The ‘L’ word. The word that took Mickey 5 years to say back.

It’s not like he didn’t feel it, he knew he was falling for Ian Gallagher very early on in this thing they had going between them and he knew that if Ian hadn’t gripped around his heart as hard as he had it wouldn’t have been hard just to blow him off, pretend he really didn’t reciprocate any of the feelings at all.

What Ian didn’t understand was it was harder to say because it was true, Mickey could lie his ass off and not feel an ounce of guilt, Ian was quite literally the opposite, he wore his heart on his sleeve and maybe if Mickey blew him off when he figured that part of Ian out that they wouldn’t be in this mess, that he wouldn’t have hurt Ian the way he did.

He realizes there’s no use in imagining more ways he could’ve fixed the past, he also realizes he’s missed his opportunity to find any friendly ground in the future.

Right now Mickey is watching Ian walk out of the front door with a man he doesn’t know.

Maybe they just met and Ian’s just looking for a quick fuck that he can throw out in the morning.

Or maybe they came here together and Mickey was too blind to realize Ian is so obviously taken now.

What a nauseating thought.

It hurts a lot and Mickey sort of knows how Ian felt the night they yelled at each other until Ian tossed him out.

He deserves this. He deserves worse than this.

He hurt the love of his life and now he’s watching him walk out with another man that could potentially be the love of his.

He’s definitely going to be sick.

And as if things couldn’t get worse, as the two are leaving, hand in hand, Ian turns his head and looks directly at Mickey with a face just as unreadable as before.

Maybe Mickey didn’t know him as well as he thought, or maybe Ian has just changed, become harder and guarded because he trusted a man he shouldn’t’ve.

“You okay?” comes a voice from just beside him, it’s Ronan, he knows without having to look too busy staring at the front door that’s now closed and feels an odd sense of déjà vu.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Ronan says and Mickey avoids telling him that he’s right, because if there’s one thing Mickey Milkovich is good at its avoiding the truth.

Ian will vouch for that he’s sure.

 

Mickey leaves the party a lot more drunk than he remembered arriving, of course he doesn’t remember much of that either.

The sky is still as dark and even the snow has stopped falling there’s an extra inch of snow now he has to trudge through.

He can’t help it when he thinks about Ian 10x harder than ever before, it’s not even worth it to argue with himself about it anymore.

“You fucked it up again”

“He meant everything to you and you let that all go”

People on the street are staring at him as says all these things out loud, he doesn’t notice or care. Why they’re still outside at this hour in the snow he figures maybe they’re heart-broken too.

Or drunk.

The streetlights he passes above him feel light spotlights and he’s ready to take that lime light and run with it.

The world is his stage and he’s ready to let it all go.

It doesn’t feel like an exaggeration when he tells himself that his world is falling apart.

With a life like the one he grew up with he never expected anything but drugs and thugs or even to live pass age 18.

When Mickey was somehow lucky enough to meet Ian that all changed, Ian change him for the better, he saved his life.

Even though he didn’t end up going to college or getting a successful career he still feels like he’s better than he would’ve been.

He’s away from his father and the life he raised him in, he no longer looks purposely for a fight.

And most importantly he accepts himself.

If Ian and him were on good terms he knows exactly what he’d say, “it’s all you Mickey.” And he’s wrong.

Without Ian Mickey would never have accepted who he was, he would never have stood up to his father.

He would probably be dead if it weren’t for Ian Gallagher.

And now he’s gone.

He misses him, more than anything in the entire world.

He would give anything to touch him, tell him how he feels, _hell_ even just look at him one more time, and to get a look back that isn’t total disgust and a reminder of what he did to deserve that.

_You just have to see him_

_You just have to see him_

_You just have to see him_

_You know that he’ll break you in two._

Mickey makes it home in one piece though still terribly wasted.

He throws up 3 times, once actually making it into the toilet where afterwards he promptly passes out.

And he dreams of dangerous red hair, an infinite amount of stars on skin and an alternate universe where he told Ian the moment he knew, that he loved him.


End file.
